The Thought
by PomKat
Summary: Hey, it's the thought that counts. Oneshot. BA friendship.


-1Disclaimer: 'Law and Order: Criminal Intent' and all its characters belong to Dick Wolf. Not me. : (

A/N: Little one shot. The idea for this story hit me while I was making dinner. :3 Rated for language. Enjoy!

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_The Thought_

I can't cook.

Sure, I can kick bad-guy ass, shoot a gun, juggle a cop's life with family life, and keep my crazy partner in line, but I can not for the life of me cut up a half a dozen vegetables and throw them into a pot of boiling water.

So how I got here, slaving over a hot stove with my mom's recipe for potato soup on the counter beside me, trying to cook a meal for the only man that's managed to stay with me for all these years, I have no freaking clue. But I'm here and doing my best.

I stare down at the paper that has my mom's pretty cursive scribbled across it. I have all the ingredients, there's water in the pot on the stove, and the fire extinguisher is safely tucked under the sink, just arm's length away in case things get out of control. With a deep breath, I grab a potato and start to peel.

_This isn't so hard, _I think and smile. I can do this! I _can_ cook! The feeling of triumph floods over my body as I sit down the first naked potato and start on the next one. _This isn't hard at all!_

Soon, all of the potatoes are peeled and I peer over at the recipe. With a nod, I grab one of the vegetables and begin to cut it into little blocks. I can almost here my mother's praise ringing in my ears.

When I was a kid, there was no playing with baby dolls and helping mom around the house. No, it was outside with my dad, working on the car or learning how to properly handcuff one of my sister's teddy bears. I'll admit, I was a hardcore tomboy and I didn't care. So maybe I didn't go on a real date till I started seeing my late husband, Joe, but that didn't take away from any life experience. Right?

I remember, the first time I'd cooked for Joe, we ended up going out because I had burnt the grilled cheeses. "Who burns a grilled cheese sandwich?" he had laughed, but hugged me and said it was the thought that counted. This time I'm determined. I'm not going to ruin this meal!

I soon finish chopping the vegetables and with a glance at my mother's recipe, I nudge them into the bowl of boiling water. Feeling accomplished, I take a step back and watch as the meal cooks.

I stare at the clock as an hour slowly passes by and to my right, the little chicken timer my sister got me for Christmas starts buzzing. I click it off and walk to the soup. Pulling a wooden spoon out from the dishwasher, I dip it into the bubbling liquid and take a sip.

A second later, I'm spitting it out and running to the sink for a glass of water. I chug it down desperately and slam the glass down with a growl. What did I do wrong!? I snatch up the paper and read over it. I'd done that, that, that. Check, check, check. . .

Everything! I'd done everything perfectly! Every teaspoon of salt had been measured, every last vegetable had been added! With a hiss, I crumble up the paper and chuck it over my shoulder. I storm over to the pot on the stove, throw on my oven mitts, and toss the crap into the trash. It's time for Plan B.

I move to the pantry, grab a couple of cans of Campbell's Country Potato Soup, open them and dump their contents into a new pot. I glance at the clock and note that he should be arriving in a little less than ten minutes. I make sure to throw away all the empty soup cans. My guest was very observant and I didn't want my plan to be foiled.

A few minutes later, after I had set the table and turned the soup down to a simmer, there was a knock at the front door. Throwing off the apron, I open the door with a smile. "Hiya, Bobby," I say cheerfully.

He smiles back, a wide grin that makes his dark brown eyes sparkle. I invite him in and he settles into the table, chattering about murder while I pour him a bowl of soup. Hopefully he won't notice my switch. We begin to eat and he compliments on how good it is. I bite down on my bottom lip. Guilt is such a bitch.

Then suddenly, I'm laughing. It's not because of something he said, not because of something he did, it's because of how ironic the situation is. Bobby knows I can't cook! Why doesn't he say something about how my cooking skills suddenly managed to flip overnight? The man blinks at me, confused and slightly amused, and asks, "Something funny, Eames?"

After a minute, I settle down and tell him the story. He laughs, shakes his head. And says, "Hey, it's the thought that counts."


End file.
